


The Ghost of Winterfell

by Rumaan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Ghosts, Reincarnation of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot: Bran has a dream of a cloaked man seeking forgiveness and Arya demands they perform a seance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the ASOIAF Kink meme on Livejournal. But I can't remember what round the prompt is in. Basically it was along these lines: Modern AU set in Winterfell where a ghost is discovered and the Stark Kids perform a seance. The ghost is looking for forgiveness from Robb.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta mccargi, who, despite not being familiar with the material, has stepped in fix my grammar.
> 
> Disclaimer: ASOIAF and it's millions of characters belong solely to George RR Martin. I just like to see the Stark kids together and happy.

Bran woke with a shudder and screamed as he saw Arya’s face bending over him.

“Shut up, you idiot!” his sister said. “As if your thrashing about wasn’t bad enough.”

“What?” he asked, dazed still.

“You were having another nightmare.”

Bran shivered as he remembered about the dream. He looked to his right and gazed into the creepy face of the Weirwood tree, the red sap seeming brighter and more bloodlike than ever. The hair prickled at the back of his neck and slid down his spine. In the dream a hooded figure had knelt before the tree, crying in penitence. 

“Was it that stupid dream about falling again? You know, the one with the three-eyed crow in it,” Arya asked mockingly.

He glared up at his older sister. In a moment of weakness, in the middle of the night, when he’d come across Arya eating the ice cream she’d been denied as dessert because she’d thrown peas at Sansa, he’d told her about the dreams that had plagued him for a few months. He’d hoped for some understanding, but Arya had laughed her head off and teased him mercilessly about it. 

That had been two years ago now. The dreams hadn’t stopped, but he had never told another soul, worried that they, too, would think he was a weirdo. 

“No!” he said defensively.

“Go on, then. Tell us what happened.”

He hesitated, but then, the wind rustled through the trees, sounding all too like the whispers that the cloaked man in his dream had heard.

“It was about a man. He wore old fashioned garb and was here, in front of the Weirwood tree,” Bran said, before looking around to check that the man wouldn’t appear at the mention of him.

Arya scoffed and Bran frowned, annoyed that he’d given his sister more ammunition against him.

But then the wind whispered through the trees once more.

_“Theon.”_

Bran froze, gaping at Arya, who looked as freaked out as he felt. “You heard that right?” he asked.

He watched his sister visibly pull herself together. “It was just the wind,” she said with bravado.

“Theon was the name of the man in my dream. He also heard the tree whisper it to him.”

Arya stared at him for a moment before a massive grin broke out on her face. He frowned, confused. How could she be pleased about this?

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“What?” he asked.

“Winterfell has a ghost!” 

Suddenly, she sprang up with a gleeful cry, racing off through the trees. 

Bran followed quickly, his wheelchair struggling to make it through the dead leaves that littered the ground, unwilling to be left in the dark, quiet Godswood after that dream.  
He caught up with his fast sister in the courtyard of the ancient castle. She was badgering their two older brothers, who were kicking a football about. 

“Arya, go away!” Robb said, exasperation lacing his voice.

“Just give me a minute and _listen_ ,” Arya whined.

Jon stopped the ball with his foot. “Go on, Robb. We might as well, she isn’t going to leave us alone until she gets whatever it is off her chest. Isn’t that right, little sister?”

Arya grinned cheekily at the half-brother who resembled her the most. They both had the grey eyes and dark hair of the Starks. “We need to hold a séance! Winterfell has a ghost!” she proclaimed dramatically.

Robb rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course it has.”

“No, really!”

“Just because you _want_ there to be a ghost, doesn’t mean there is one. Besides, we all know they don’t exist.”

Arya turned around, frustrated with her prosaic eldest brother. “Ha! Bran!” she yelled. “Come and tell Robb and Jon about your dream.”

Bran glared at her, unwilling to let his two older brothers laugh at him. Arya ran over, grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and forcibly rolled him over to the goalposts that had been set up to entertain the kids. 

He reluctantly told Robb and Jon about his dream and the whispers once he’d woken up.

“Come on, Arya,” Robb said. “It’s obvious what happened. Bran fell asleep in front of the Heart Tree, which is creepy enough on the best of days, and had a nightmare. The rest is just the wind. It doesn’t mean we have a ghost.”

“I heard the name, too,” Arya sulked, kicking a pebble in Robb’s direction.

Jon, always indulgent of his youngest sister’s whims, ruffled her hair. “What harm can it do, Robb? We just dig out the Ouija board and see if Arya is right.”

Arya beamed up at her favourite brother before turning her eyes on Robb, giving him a beseeching look. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Okay then. But you can tell Dad what we’re doing and deal with his lecture about how there’s no such things as ghosts.”

“Sure,” she called as she raced off into the castle.

\-----------

Jon shook his head and smiled at how the children’s sitting room looked; it seemed someone had gone overboard decking it out for this séance. It was bathed in flickering candle light and a table had been placed in the centre of the room with the sofas pushed back. The table looked like something out of a tacky fayre, with a gaudy gold and purple spangled shawl thrown over it and a large brass candelabra in the centre. At least the incense was gone; although, the room still stank of it.

Arya had thrown a hissy fit, chucking a couple of cushions at Sansa, when she’d seen the profusion of scented candles and incense her older sister had lit.

“It needed the right ambiance,” Sansa had said defensively, whilst Robb had threatened to walk out there and then.

Sansa sulkily removed the incense but refused to blow out the scented candles. She now sat next to Bran’s wheelchair, pouting and throwing glares at Arya, who was completely oblivious as she set up the Ouija board.

“Can we hurry up and get this done?” Robb grumbled, still unhappy he was taking part in this. 

They all sat around the table Arya and Sansa had set up, placed their fingers on the planchette, and then they waited.

“Well, who is going to ask the questions?” Robb asked, annoyed.

“Bran should,” Arya said. “It’s him the ghost has been trying to contact.”

“Oh, I really don’t want to.”

Arya glared at him. “Want me to mention things you’d rather keep to yourself?”

Bran reddened and Jon felt sorry for his sensitive brother, whereas Robb laughed and encouraged Arya to spill the secrets. 

“Can we get a move on? Jeyne is calling me in an hour. She went on a date with Rickard, and I want to hear all the details,” Sansa said, studying her nails.

Arya muttered something about airheads before looking pointedly at Bran, who groaned before reluctantly asking the first question.

“Is there anyone out there?”

There was silence and Jon could see Robb’s shoulder shaking with muffled laughter. 

“See, there’s no ghost,” Bran said, clearly uncomfortable with this whole thing.

“You’re not giving it a chance,” Arya protested. “Call it by its name. You know, the name we heard in the Godswood.”

Bran shook his head, but Arya continued to push until he caved.

“Theon,” Bran called. “Are you there?”

Again, there was no answer.

“Right! That’s it! We tried and, as I told you in the yard, there’s nothing there, Arya. I’m going to watch the football,” Robb said, rising from the table.

As Robb went to walk away, a wind blew in from the open window, snuffing out the majority of the candles. A cloaked figure appeared next to Robb, who jumped back, clearly alarmed. Sansa screamed in fright and clutched Bran’s arm.

“Your Grace,” the ghostly apparition said, bowing his head to Robb, whose eyes had widened in alarm.

“See!” Arya crowed. “I _told_ you there was a ghost in Winterfell.”

Jon wished he could capture his youngest sister’s enthusiasm at the development, but he was feeling more in line with Sansa’s reaction.

“Wha… what do you want?” Robb asked, fear making his voice tremble.

“I wish to make amends. I promised you my sword but betrayed you. I cannot rest until I have your forgiveness.”

Robb looked around at them all, the confusion on his face mirroring Jon’s own bewilderment.

“Who are you?” Arya asked, fascinated. 

Jon wasn’t surprised to see that his wild little sister was the only one not startled by the ghost’s appearance. 

“He’s Theon Greyjoy,” Bran said, drawing everyone’s attention. “He sacked Winterfell eight hundred years ago.”

In the gloom, Jon didn’t recognise his disabled brother. He looked far older than his nine years, his eyes turning an eerie green colour in the dark room. 

The ghost bowed its head in shame. “I took Winterfell, your Grace, but I didn’t burn it. That was the Bolton Bastard. I did not murder your brothers either, but I did kill two innocent boys to pass them off as Bran and Rickon.”

Robb jumped at this confession and looked over at Bran, his face clearly showing pain at the thought of his younger brothers being murdered. Jon himself gripped Bran’s left hand tightly, needing the comfort of touch at the thought of someone taking his brother away.

“You call me ‘Your Grace,’ but I am not a king. The Starks haven’t been kings for over a thousand years.”

“You were crowned King in the North. Your bannermen refused to kneel to the Lannister usurper, and you marched to free your father and your sisters. Only you were thrice betrayed. To my shame, I was the first to do so. You sent me back to my home to make a treaty with my father. But he mocked me for becoming a greenlander, so I looked to prove myself to him and I took Winterfell, knowing it only to be guarded by old men with a crippled boy at the helm.”

Jon heard Robb’s intake of breath from across the table. Every Stark grew up knowing that the castle had been burnt centuries ago, that the Stark family had almost died out in the turbulent wars that shook Westeros during that time, but the details had been long lost.

“I forgive you,” Bran said. “I have felt your torment and know your remorse.”

“My thanks, Lord Bran, but it is not you I seek forgiveness from. You have already given me this mercy once before.”

Bran nodded, as if he were already aware of this fact.

“Once before?” Jon asked, confused.

“The original Bran, Lord Snow. The Bran I pretended to kill.”

“Lord Snow?” Arya queried

“Remember, Arya, noble-born bastards were once given separate names. If that tradition held today then Jon would not be a Stark but a Snow,” Sansa said.

Jon nodded. He had always been grateful to be born in modern Westeros, where he was able to take the same surname as his siblings, despite not being born in wedlock. 

“I know that, Sansa,” Arya said with an eye roll. “But why _Lord_ Snow?” 

She addressed the last part of her question to the ghost of Theon Greyjoy. “Your bastard brother went to the Wall and took the black. He became Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Ooh,” Arya said.

Jon had to admit, this was all fairly fascinating. It was a glimpse into the past, most of which had turned into the stuff of legend. The Wall and the Night’s Watch had been some of his favourite stories when he was young. The fight that had brought the Wall down and the ensuing battle with the White Walkers had both intrigued and scared him. When he and Robb would sword fight with sticks in the godswood, he had always pretended that he was the Prince that was Promised, the leader who had vanquished the Others, but he had never heard of a Lord Snow - a former Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, who had been the Lord Commander during this time.

Then again, he had also never heard of a King Robb Stark, but, according the ghostly apparition, there once was one, and he seemed to believe that this current Robb was his reincarnation.

It would make some sort of sense, Jon thought, his pragmatism leaving him for a moment. Robb, being far less fanciful, had always chosen to be Torrhen, the last Stark King in the North, but he always refused to kneel as their ancestor had. Maybe there had been a reason for that, as it seemed there was a Robb who had been King in the North afterwards, whose story hadn’t come down with all the others. 

Jon looked over to his barely older half-brother, whose shock at the ghost’s presence appeared to be wearing off.

“Hear that?” he said, catching Jon’s eye. “Seems there was once a King Robb. I think I’d make a rather good king. Shame Westeros is governed by a Grand Council now, rather than kings.”

Jon smiled as he saw the wistful look on Robb’s face. How like his boisterous brother to want to lead, seeing only the glory of such a role and not the hardship. 

“Why did the original Robb not give you his forgiveness?” Sansa asked, getting the conversation back on track.

Sadness fell on the ghost’s face. “I mentioned he was thrice betrayed. I was the first, but two others betrayed him after that and to his death. I was never able to make amends for what I had done, and I have been roaming Westeros ever since, biding my time to gain his forgiveness. It is only now that the Lord of Winterfell has six children once more, two girls and four boys, one of which was born to another woman that I am able to gain any rest King Robb may permit me. I have been waiting for this moment.”

Jon felt a stirring of pity for Theon Greyjoy. It might have been due to his nature as a ghost, but Jon thought he looked pathetic and as though he had paid for his sins already. He looked at Robb, who was studying the apparition.

“I’m not sure I can forgive you,” he said. “I’m not sure I would forgive anyone who swore their sword to me and then captured my castle and killed my brothers.”

The ghost bowed his head, but not before Jon saw the disappointment flash across his face. “As you wish, Your Grace, I am sure I deserve neither forgiveness nor mercy from you.”

He was moved to protest, but before he could get the words out, Bran spoke. “Robb, you don’t know what Greyjoy has suffered. If he did not regret his actions, then he would have moved on, but he has been tied to roam these lands because of the remorse he feels.”

Robb frowned. “He tried to kill this Robb’s brothers. Are you saying I should just forget that?”

“The previous Bran already forgave him. Surely, he was as wronged as King Robb was. Give him rest – no one deserves this fate.”

Jon watched as the emotions warred across his elder brother’s face before he finally nodded curtly. “I will give you my forgiveness as my brother asks.”

The Greyjoy ghost gave a tremulous smile, and Jon saw that he had cracked and missing teeth and he wondered what had happened to him. By the looks of it, it wasn’t pretty.

The ghost knelt, bent his head. “I thank you for your mercy, Your Grace.”

With another gust of wind, he was gone.

Standing on shaking legs, Sansa moved to turn the lights on, the glare of electric brightness making Jon squint and blink rapidly. 

“That’s the last time I ever agree to do anything Arya suggests,” she said before she left the room.

Even Arya was looking subdued in light of the revelations, and Jon took her hand. “Want to get some ice cream, squirt?”

\---------

Bran watched as his half-brother and Arya left the room, leaving just him and Robb, who remained standing in the same place he had been for the past half-an-hour.

“You did the right thing,” he said.

“Then why does it feel like a betrayal to our family? This Greyjoy should suffer for the pain he inflicted.”

“He suffered more than you can imagine,” Bran said simply.

Robb didn’t reply, just gave him an assessing look, almost as if he knew Bran had more information. He really hoped his older brother didn’t ask him to explain further. He didn’t want to share that knowledge. Of how he’d dreamed of flayed men and weddings that ended in a massacre. He certainly didn’t want tell Robb of the vision he’d had several months back of a man’s body topped with a wolf’s head, a crown sitting mockingly on top. A crown he’d seen tucked deep in an alcove in the library, its glass case dusty, and the faded label that read, _The iron and bronze crown forged in the Riverlands, 298 AL, for King Robb, last King in the North_.

Almost as if picking up on this, Robb just nodded at him and muttered something about catching the second half of the match.


End file.
